the nightmare again

The living things 
poured out of her clothes 
and fell, writhed once 
and died. 

Each left a hole of a different 
shape. Each had the color of dye,
and texture of shirt, or pants, or
hoodie, progressively,
underthings 

With nothing conceivably
telling why. As all of these
people around were stood, but
milling or passing - not seeing
things. She can't cry
for help,
because then
they'd see. Attention
distracted from normal
and good, averted to horror
and shame 
this brings - whose cause,
in a minute 
shall not be explained. 

Just fully exposed to discovery.
Cruel humor and shock. What
is she doing? Standing like that!

With -
their eyes peering down
- a circle 

of strange, dead
colorful things 

on the floor or the ground,
which cannot be turned back.
Cannot be put on. 

It's horribly real

the whole time, and she knows
that it is going on. It's happened
before, she suddenly knows. So
familiar, these times. Sometimes 
it occurs in the back of her mind,
as she goes about running dream 
errands galore, and she drives it away,
back down to occur - not to her, not today.

And it doesn't. 

It waits.

Then when she won't suspect, 
it's the nightmare again. It will not 
wake her up, because in the dream 
on some level, she dreads 
that she'd wake up a man.

Some horrors in life are worth
living through,
so as not to wake up
from who we shall be,
if we get through them.